So you finally got that haircut and now you look like Keith Chegwin.
Your favourite restaurant only has three tables available in the next six months.
You binged on so many takeaways during lockdown that your clothes no longer fit, and now every day plays out like a recurring wardrobe nightmare.
It’s taken 75 Whatsapp messages, 11 missed calls, 22 enquiries and 7 waiting lists to finalise your meeting plans.
You turn back because you forgot your bank card. Once home, realise it was in your wallet all along.
When you do eventually arrive half an hour late through the rain to your ninety-minute slot you have to order 11 bowls of edamame in an hour to cover the minimum spend. Feel sick after binge eating all the edamame.
“Oh, by the way, I’ve been doing ABSOLUTELY NOTHING…” There’s nothing to say when you’re there.
Your chair dips when you raise a glass.
En route to the loos realise that you never liked being close to strangers anyway.
Masks trigger you.
Agree with Sartre: Hell is other people.
Shielded by the pink voile of nostalgia during incarceration you forgot about those times, didn’t you?